


Falling slowly

by The_green_eyed_fictionista



Series: Ways to meet [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Fluff, Inspired by Music, Love at First Sight, M/M, Musician!Dean, Romance, Songfic, singer!dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:05:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_green_eyed_fictionista/pseuds/The_green_eyed_fictionista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is a lonely musician, down on his luck, music and his guitar the only things that he can still rely on.</p><p>Inspired by Glen Hansard's song ''Falling slowly'' (it can be watched here www.youtube.com/watch?v=FkFB8f8bzbY)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Falling slowly

This particular street corner has always been Dean’s favorite. His job as a street performer required him to move often in search of more circulated parts of the city and more people that might appreciate his music. But this is not why he does it, not really.

This is not why he wakes up every morning in his cold and cramped little studio apartment, and heads downtown in search of a spot to set up his classic guitar. A place where he can just pour his heart out through his music, fingers strumming along the sinews of his baby. The black sleek instrument, a vintage piece that Dean got for his birthday decades ago, nicknamed Impala after his father’s car, has been Dean’s companion for decades. John has been gone for ages, the car too, but the guitar still remained, clutched tightly in Dean’s arms, one of the last things he owns that remind him of his long lost family.

Lisa often said that the lifeless piece of wood was more important than her in Dean’s heart. He knew that wasn’t true, the part about the Impala being a lifeless bunch of splinters that is. It was oh so much more than that. The only thing in his life that had never disappointed him, that never abandoned him in search of greener pastures, the only one he could always rely on.  

He doesn’t play his music for the money, he doesn’t _need_ that. Okay, so he needs the money, bills have to be paid and all that, but he has two other jobs to take care of those. What he really  _needs_  is to keep busy, to give his hands and his mind something to do, something to focus on. He doesn’t want to think about how lonely he has been since Sam moved away to attend college in another state. He doesn’t want to think about Lisa leaving _after_  he caught her cheating. He doesn’t want to think about the fact that he has nobody left to take care of, to live for. Sam is on his way to a new life, he doesn’t need his older brother to babysit him anymore.

No, that’s not why his fingers caress his best friend’s strings in the middle of the sidewalk. He does it because, even though his thirty years worth of living don’t give him any reason to, he still believes in love. In that mountain moving, soul cleansing, gut wrecking, overwhelming feeling of loosing yourself in somebody else, without any means  _or need_  of escape.

He doesn’t _want_ to believe though, because it makes him feel weak and exposed, makes people like his former fiancee take advantage of him. So he doesn’t flaunt it, he doesn’t talk about it, he doesn’t even _think_ about it, he just…  _believes._ He doesn’t need proof. Sure, he longs for it, but he doesn’t  _need_  it.

He watches the flow of people, little ants hurrying from one place to another, shuffling along their suitcases and their disposable coffee cups, the hustle and bustle of the old street always soothing his anxiety. He likes it here, the noise and commotion make his thoughts stray, the only thing that grounds him being the music. Soft ballads and noisy classic rock make sense to him. Music always made sense to him. It brought him comfort and balance, ever since he heard the first aggressive beats of AC/DC or the softer Led Zeppelin notes coming through the old Impala’s speakers

He likes watching the old lady that manages the flower booth a few yards away as she changes the water for the flowers every few hours. She often tells him stories about the secret language of flowers, what each symbolizes. Sometimes she even gives him a funny looking daisy or a crooked tulip or a busted rose that’s missing a couple of petals, always saying  _look beyond the obvious and maybe you’ll find what you’re searching for._ It kinda creeps Dean out every time she does that, but she’s a sweet old lady and the look in her eyes when she gives him the broken blooms, makes him remember why he has a bunch of damaged flowers in a jar waiting for him back at his apartment. Maybe he’s just as damaged as they are, maybe they just complete each other.

Dean clears his throat softly as he tunes the instrument. Fine scratches cross the shiny surface, proofs of a life lived to the full and of the love the musician has for his faithful friend.

Dean takes a couple of moments to think about what he wants to do, he doesn’t have any particular songs that he feels like playing today so he shuffles in his mind between some old favorites. He feels a little strange being so undecided. When he usually settles to play, he is in a specific state of mind, either he feels rocky rhythms flowing through his veins brought to surface by his anxiety, or mellow tunes molded by melancholy, but he’s never not sure of what he will play.

He looks down at his shoes and the little bouquet of forget-me-not blossoms that the flower lady gave to him earlier catches his eye. And just like that he knows what he is going to play. He hardly ever performs his own songs because it always makes him feel way too vulnerable and exposed. And even so, who wants to hear a sappy sad love song in the middle of the street anyway, right? People never tend to stop and listen to him when he plays his own works, apparently everybody feels comfortable only around the same old overplayed covers. People take comfort in what they know.

There is nothing else that he wants to play at that moment though, the notes and sounds fall through his lips on their own accord and slip between his fingers as he plucks at the strings.

 _I don’t know you, but I want you, All the more for that_ _…_  

Every verse flows easily, his voice like a lover’s touch, warm and inviting. He knows he probably looks and sounds quite pathetic, but it doesn’t matter, this song is not for _them_. Dean doesn’t even have to think about the notes or the words, he played the song many times before in the privacy of his own home, never in public though. But that is not important anyway, because the only thing he can see are small blue flowers resting near his guitar case.  

_Take this sinking boat and point it home, We've still got time._

Even through his haze, Dean can sense somebody watching him. It’s not a big thing in itself, because as a street performer that’s kind of the purpose, right? But somehow, this time just feels a litle… off. He lifts his gaze and it stops on the guy in front of him. Tall, dark and handsome would be the first words that come to Dean’s mind. Cue mental facepalm and a slight waver can be heard in his voice but he covers it quickly. The guy looks ruffled, blue eyes widened in surprise and it appears that he stopped mid step. 

_Falling slowly, eyes that know me, And I can't go back_

They stare at each other for what seems like hours, but none of them makes a move. Dean realizes he’s singing his song only for this strange man that he never saw before. He can think of nothing else, the words spilling from his lips out of his control, but looking into those shell shocked blue eyes, he knows that he finally has the proof that he  _needed_.

_You have suffered enough, And warred with yourself, It's time that you won_


End file.
